When the marquis’s household finally brought me home, I was already twenty years old—old enough that women my age had children, while I remained unwed.
Only after entering the estate did I learn that I had been promised in marriage before I was born, but the false heiress raised in my place had already married my betrothed.
She and the ducal heir were deeply in love, with both a son and a daughter, and theirs was celebrated throughout the capital as a perfect match.
When she faced me, guilt overwhelmed her so completely that she could not speak through her tears.
Mother held her close and comforted her, while the ducal heir vowed that she would be the only woman in his life.
I stood straight and composed, pretending none of it mattered.
Hidden inside my sleeve, however, my fingers clutched my skirt so tightly that they ached to the bone.
That night, Mother took my hand and sighed, urging me to accept that everything was already settled and let it go.
She promised to find me a better marriage and said she had already considered several fine young gentlemen.
I stared at the osmanthus tree perfuming the courtyard and found myself thinking instead of the pigs back home, with no one left to tend them.
“Mother,” I said, “I don’t want a marriage. Please let me go home.”
